cyanide & tenterhooks
by weepingbird
Summary: Evans was certain about everything, and convinced she had the right of it all, especially when it came to James Potter. James was equally as certain that nothing in life was ironclad or inevitable as she seemed to make it out to be, except perhaps, for the pair of them. An eternity, at times, can fit into a handful of years, a hundred kisses, a cheeky phrase.


A delicate chain hung from Lily Evans' slender neck, loosely draping down the mussed front of her shirt. The pendant was closer to her belly button than the dip between her neck and her collarbone —or it would have been, had her fingers not been grasping at it, tugging at the chain like it was a snarl around her neck.

Lily made no effort to hurry through the crowd, despite the oppressive ticking coming from the thin watch wrapped around her wrist, somehow louder than the cacophony of sound that made up Platform 9 ¾ on September 1st. It seemed to tick in time with the steady beating of her heart, which may, or may not have had something to do with the matter altogether. A trickle of urgency pressed somewhere against the back of Lily's mind, however the pinch in her feet seemed to supersede anything else.

It was necessary, Ethel Evans had insisted—her mouth flattened into a prim line, her voice tart and stringent—to have new shoes for every important occasion. The words were as familiar to Lily as the harshness of her mother's mouth. It was an expression her sister had taken to wearing, though she never quite matched the tiniest quirk at the corner of the lips, nor the hidden mischief behind Ethel's unremarkable blue eyes.

Every year for six years now, Lily had arrived at King's Cross Station close to the eleventh hour. Every year she seemed to cut it closer and closer, despite accumulating more and more possessions that needed to be lugged with her. And every year, by the very end of the night, Lily's feet were aching and raw, covered in blisters that she had not bothered to ward off—a result of trotting about in new shoes.

A blaring whistle sounded off to Lily's left—a warning and an encouragement all at once. Such a ritual was practiced enough for the young woman, that she could recognize the loud cadence and particular impatience associated with the beckoning toll; it was the final warning, and not the first.

Still, Lily did not increase her speed. For any watching from the train—or perhaps, any that had found oneself on the wrong end of her wand—it would be an easy thing to label her as arrogant. And of her many faults that Lily had catalogued, arrogance certainly was one of the vices that gripped her tightly. But at that very moment, it was not her own hubris and certainty that the train would wait for her, that kept her gait steady and measured. If Lily were truly forced to sit and analyze—a terrible habit her father had often forced upon her—she might have said it was the certainty that it _wouldn't_. There was something almost blissful about the knowledge that if Lily Evans was not on the train at 11am, the Hogwarts Express would happily leave Lily behind.

All that was uncertain was whether Lily wanted it to or not.

She had learned in her sixteen short years of living, that what she wanted had very little bearing on matters at all. Armed with that knowledge, and the certainty of the Hogwarts Express' imminent departure, Lily stepped onto the the train, lugging her trunk with only the _slightest_ huff. Barely a moment later, the train began to move, another whistle sounding off its departure for the rest of the platform to hear. Lily barely allowed herself a moment to scan the wan faces scattered along the platform, before a familiar figure ambled into her line of sight.

"Seems you've made it after all," A tall, blonde seventh year drawled, a lazy, careless smirk playing on his lips. It was the sort of expression that made Lily immediately bristle—precisely why it seemed to be his default expression whenever he was around her. She had never managed to pull off such an effortless twist of her lips, and it always managed to look so bloody good on those that insisted upon it. "Need to borrow Anemoi to send word to the Prophet? Or maybe your parents?"

Lily rolled her eyes dramatically, yet another of her catalogued vices, but one she laid at the feet of her mother. In an assessment of the delicate lattice of friendships Lily had painstakingly cultivated—and often simply stumbled into—at a glance, Ambrose Cuthbert would not appear to be particularly close to Lily. There was not overmuch in common between the tall Hufflepuff darling, and the odd muggleborn with a near famous lack of patience. A closer glance, however, or even just a simple conversation with either, would give away the fact that Ambrose and Lily were quite possibly the most stubborn and argumentative individuals to ever cross the threshold of Hogwarts. Their clashes were a sight to behold, truly, but a strange sort of friendship had emerged between the two. It was helped along by the fact that Lily, with very little regard for decorum, or a trite thing such as _permission_, took full advantage of the fact that Ambrose had an owl, and very few people to write to.

It was one of the unmentionables that allowed their friendship to work.

"No, I suppose I can give Anemoi a break, before I render his services my own again," Lily insisted with the touch of dramatics that had gotten her kicked out of a local theatre troupe at the plum age of nine. Her mother had oscillated wildly between sheer joy at the scandal of it all, and disappointment that she had not, in fact, birthed the next Debbie Reynolds. "Besides, mum and dad said they weren't going to waste a moment worrying about me. Either I'd be there for supper, or I'd be lost to Scotland once again."

Ambrose snorted, having had the distinct pleasure of encountering Lily's parents on more than one occasion. His jaw worked as if preparing his snappy repartee, but at that precise moment, a group of boisterous second years practically galloped past the pair, barreling down the narrow corridors with little regard for anyone else. Lily was forced to press herself against the closed door of the train, reminding her just how unfavorable her position truly was.

"I suppose I ought to get settled in a carriage," Lily said, gesturing toward her trunk. Ambrose arched an eyebrow at the witch, folding his arms over his chest, as if asking if she was truly daring to hint at some sort of request. Lily lifted her chin challengingly in reply. Ambrose would never, _ever_ volunteer to lift something if he didn't need to, and Lily was more than capable of carrying her own trunk. She just didn't _want_ to.

"Isn't there supposed to be a prefects meeting, first thing?" Ambrose questioned, as if he hadn't been a prefect for three years already. A surreptitious glance at his robes confirmed that he had not, in fact, made Head Boy. Lily was certain he would have written if he had, and even more certain that such a badge would have been playing in his hands, rather than pinned to his navy blue robes that he would insist upon wearing until the very moment he had to enter Hogwarts. But there was an absence that implied Ambrose had been correct in his assumptions, that night in June, when his fingers had been slack against a clear, glass bottle and tangled in her hair, tongue as thick with the amber colored liquid as the air was heavy with the roiling summer storm building over the lake.

Lily did not waste her time asking how he felt about the matter. Hufflepuff disappointment though Ambrose might have been, he came from a long line of Ravenclaws that practiced a ruthless sort of efficiency. It would be a useless endeavor, and frankly, Lily cared very little for what he had to say about the matter. Ambrose Cuthbert was a liar of the very worst sort, meaning he was alarmingly proficient at fooling everyone, most of all himself.

"I'm a sixth year," was Lily's only reply, accompanied by a one—armed shrug that she knew would serve to irritate him as much as her words. Indeed, Ambrose scowled down at her. He hated half—assed gestures and attempts—the very definition of sixth year prefects, if some were to be believed. Fifth years had all the eagerness and excitement over the new position, while seventh years at least had the excuse of having one foot out the door. An argument could be made (had been made, to Lily's disappointment, at more than one lecture that sprawled out into the inky nighttime hours) that the sixth year prefects at least had something to work for, they all knew that wasn't really true. There were no official rules that the Heads _had_ to be picked from the pool of prefects, and with a Headmaster such as Dumbledore, it always seemed to be something nebulous and undefinable that served as the deciding factor in the offer of Headship. Just the year before, Emma Vanity had been Head Girl, despite having no experience as a prefect, and according to some, no real knack for it.

(The common theory was that Dumbledore had wanted a Slytherin head, to tout the idea of inter-House unity, all while cherry-picking a "good" Slytherin. Lily had rolled her eyes enough to give herself a headache, when that particular strain of gossip had made its way to her dormitory.)

In truth, Lily had no real plans to slack off, sixth year or not, but the familiarity of lobbing tiny pricks at Ambrose had already settled over her, like snuggling under the covers of her favorite, well-worn blanket. Ambrose was by no means, an easy one to rile up, but Lily would have sworn she saw the faintest flush creeping up along his freckled neck, to which she responded with a dazzling smile.

"I suppose there's no hope in you showing up on time anywhere, is there?" Ambrose asked, his tone deceptively light, as if still merely teasing, though there was an undercurrent of something that Lily did not care to spend much time thinking on. She was, after all, the one who was so late to her Defense O.W.L., she had not even made it. There was a flicker of _something_ in his eyes, that Lily recklessly ignored with another shrug, caustic in its practiced carelessness.

"There's really not." Her agreement matched Ambrose for tone, though there was little subtlety to the finality of their conversation. For his part, Ambrose managed a nod with only a partial scrutinizing stare. There were moments in which Lily often felt like she was some sort of delicate creature, pinned to the wall for examination, poked and prodded, to see what sort of reactions it might elicit. Evening dinner parties with Slughorn, usually made her feel such a way, as did encounters with particularly perspicacious Ravenclaws. Ambrose was neither of those things, but he did have a way about him, of making her feel as though he could easily slide into her many fissures, and completely unmake her.

Lily repressed a shiver, and nodded back at her friend, fingers tightening around the handle of her trunk and swinging it closer to her in order to sidle past Ambrose in the direction of the carriage she knew she would find her friends in.

Over the years and many trips from King's Cross Station to Scotland, and back again— something Elspeth complained endlessly over—Lily had found a favored carriage, located towards the back of the Hogwarts Express. She couldn't explain what it was about that particular carriage, aside from the initials she had painstakingly carved into the soft wood paneling, hidden behind the fraying wallpaper, but she had determined it her own. It was not particularly exceptional. In fact, almost all of the Hogwarts carriages were practically the same. The compartment occupied by Remus and his friends was perhaps the only exception. Lily liked having ownership though, even over something as simple and silly as a carriage on the Hogwarts Express. She had declared it as belonging to _them_, and ever since, at least one of her friends always faithfully saved the compartment for the rest of them.

Lily continued her trek down the Hogwarts Express, pausing every few steps to press herself flat against the narrow walls of the train as people hurried past her. Most of them wore the wide—eyed eager expressions she had come to associate with the new students, almost certainly searching for an empty compartment, and too nervous to ask any of the older students for space in their own. Lily almost pitied them, but not enough to offer sanctuary in the carriage that was waiting for her. Soon enough, Lily Evans, Gryffindor Prefect would slot back into place, and she would don her desire to help next to the badge pinned on her chest, over the hollow where her heart should have been, if she did not deign to wear it on her sleeve, every once in a while. It always happened at the beginning of each year, even before a golden badge had arrived in a heavy envelope. The need to _do something_ would rise forth, as certainly as the Hogwarts Express departed King's Cross Station at 11am on September 1st. But it was still a part of Lily, and therefore subject to her perpetual lack of concern over punctuality.

Arriving, finally, at the carriage she had been looking for, Lily reached a free hand out to grasp at the door, not bothering to knock, before flinging it open, and unceremoniously tossing her trunk into the small compartment. There was a small yelp, but the rest of the occupants ignored the action, having spent far too long with one Lily Evans, than to expect anything less than complete and utter gracelessness.

"Tell me, Lily, were you _trying_ to miss the bloody train?"

A smile, something soft and gentle, and completely unfamiliar after a summer of disuse, curled around Lily's lips as she looked at Florence Boyd, a fellow Gryffindor sixth year, and the very first female friend she had made at Hogwarts. Florence wasn't terribly dramatic or boisterous—leaving the former to Lily, when it suited her, and the latter to Mary—and her demand hadn't truly been loud. The delivery was more reminiscent of a soft quip than anything, but there was a certain agitation that was unique to the tall, willowy brunette—sharp movements and clipped words. Lily was positive, after years of friendship, that there was true frustration, and potentially even a rebuke, hidden underneath the layers of concern and teasing, but she would have to suss them out later.

Instead, Lily decided to laugh, and fling herself into the only available seat, which happened to be next to Tilden Toots, who had not so much as looked up when Lily entered the compartment. Lily _loved_ Tilden.

"I thought I would see how close I could really come," Lily stated in a lofty tone of voice. "Next year I'm thinking of taking a running leap, see if I can make it."

Across from her, Elspeth Campbell snorted tellingly, though she kept her mouth shut. Her disbelief was—apart from an utter betrayal of the deep and lasting bonds of friendship between the two witches—likely brought on by the fact that Lily was well known as one of the clumsiest students in all of Hogwarts. No one would soon let her forget the Wand Incident of 1974. Elspeth, however, was no paragon of grace either, and so she left her commentary at the noise, and dutifully ignored Lily's glare, which quickly melted away as she heaved a loud sigh.

"Where is everyone?" Lily asked, her brow furrowing, as she looked around the carriage curiously. The compartments on the train were all bloody small—apart from that which was declared as belonging to Remus and his friends, practically by law—, but that had never mattered much. Just the last year, the carriage that Lily fondly thought of _her's_ had been pushed to its very maximum, housing nearly twenty students. It had been complete madness, and terribly uncomfortable, and Lily had loved every moment of it. Of course, Severus had popped his head in for just a moment, bringing the number up to twenty-one, but he had quickly disappeared with a sneer twisting over his lips, and it had brought down Lily's mood considerably.

Now though, there was no Severus—a fact which she refused to dwell on too carefully, lest she fall into that trap and never work her way out—and only Florence, Elspeth, and Tilden. Something like disappointment almost ached in Lily's chest, but she moved past the emotion quickly.

"Well, Oscar is Head Boy, as I reckon you'll find out in a few minutes," Florence began, smirking a bit, as if she had ruined some great surprise. Lily chuckled, though she had certainly expected as much. Really, the only two it could have been between were Ambrose and Oscar. The latter was certainly the more logical choice, though Lily suspected it hadn't necessarily been the Headmaster's choice. "And then James made Captain, so it's likely we'll never see our friends again."

Lily arched an eyebrow. Somehow, that was even less surprising than Oscar's new position. "Well, perhaps we'll actually win the Cup this year," she offered optimistically, even though she was already internally grimacing, picturing the state of their dormitory. Mary MacDonald, for all of her admirable, enviable traits—of which there were many—was decidedly _not_ a witch who subscribed to the thought that cleanliness was close to godliness. Or perhaps, she did, and she simply did not care. Either way, the girl could be as messy as she was beautiful—which was to say, very. Quidditch season only made that worse.

Once again, Elspeth snorted, her eyes sparkling with delight. "Oh I doubt it,"

Lily narrowed her eyes. It was true that she wasn't the most knowledgeable fan of Quidditch, though she quite enjoyed the excitement of it all, but even _she_ knew that the Ravenclaw team was the very worst of Hogwarts. It was important that _every_ Gryffindor knew that, because Ravenclaw was the only House that was worse than their own. Though, with James Potter now in charge of the team—and really, he ought to have been made Captain _years_ ago, even if Lily would never admit such a thing aloud— they might actually have a shot.

"Oh really? Get rid of Podmore then?" Lily smirked. It was well known that Professor Flitwick did not really care about Quidditch one way or another, and gave very little thought to the position of Captaincy. It was determined by an essay application, and while Sturgis Podmore was no Hamish MacFarlan, he was the sort of writer who could bring anyone to tears over a History of Magic essay.

"No. But Lucinda made Captain as well."

Lily let out an almighty groan, earning her a sympathetic glance from Tilden, who had finally looked up from the book of plants he had buried his face in. Even Florence, who had little patience for Quidditch, seemed put out by the knowledge as well. Lily was suddenly glad it was only the four of them in the compartment, because she simply couldn't muster up the will to hide her bitter disappointment. In a few minutes she would allow the pride to seep in, and take root in her mind, but for now, she needed to wallow.

Lucinda Talkalot, one of Lily's closest friends, was a Quidditch fanatic. She lived and _breathed_ the sport, and was determined to become a professional, the very moment she graduated Hogwarts. That was all well and good, and Lily was terribly proud of her friend, but the fact that she had been made Quidditch Captain only meant certain doom for Gryffindor. For all of Lucinda's talents, she hadn't made it onto the Quidditch team until the previous year, when Emma Vanity had managed to become Captain, and continued to buck the Slytherin tradition of keeping girls off the team by any means necessary. Emma Vanity had been bloody _brilliant_, which everyone could admit to, no matter how begrudgingly. And Lucinda had lapped up everything the woman said, as if they were air, and she was desperately trying to breathe.

"We're never going to see Mary, or Alice, are we?" Florence asked glumly, and Tilden shook his head, turning a page in his textbook.

"No. But on the bright side, you might not see Vincent either," he pointed out, and Florence perked up noticeably. Vincent De Leon had been Florence's first steady boyfriend, and first real heartbreak. Lily winced, remembering the state of her friend at the end of June, just around the time of O.W.L.s. Lily had never been particularly _fond_ of Vincent, and had suspected the beginning of the end when Bertha Jorkins—a nasty, gossipy Ravenclaw whom Lily was pleased to be rid of—went about telling the whole bloody school that she had caught Florence and Vincent snogging. It wouldn't have meant much, since Jorkins was known as a terrible gossip, and practically _everyone_ had been caught having a snog by that point, but Bertha had been cruel about her insinuations, never outright lying, but hinting there was more to be imagined. Vincent, who came from the sort of family that insisted on betrothals and proper behavior, had been quick to end things, shortly after a scarlet letter from his mother had humiliated both him and Florence in the middle of the Great Hall, right before their Herbology O.W.L. Lily knew it was no coincidence that Florence was not pursuing a N.E.W.T. in the subject, despite always having a fondness for it.

"Well, it's a good thing the lot of us are more fun than any of them," Lily said bracingly. Elspeth raised an eyebrow, and Tilden smiled into the pages of his book, but Lily was willing to accept their reactions. It was a bit jarring to realize how much everything had truly changed. Some days it seemed like yesterday that they had all been running around Hogwarts, not a single day passing by in which Lily didn't see most, if not all, of her friends. Now, between Quidditch and clubs and prefect duties and all sorts of obligations, it was more likely that Lily might go an entire week without seeing some of her friends. Her stomach gave a funny little lurch, any time she thought about the end of the year, and how many of her friends would be leaving Hogwarts altogether.

She ignored the sensation in favor of turning when she saw Tilden closing his book with a regretful little sigh, and stowing it away in his knapsack at his feet.

"We might as well head toward the prefect carriage," Tilden said, his words directed at Lily, but managing to include Elspeth and Florence as well. He was good at that, Tilden Toots was. He had a way of making everyone feel welcome and included. Once, when Lily had still been young and naive, and still inclined to believe sweeping generalizations about the magical world, she had asked him if it was because he was a Hufflepuff. Tilden had fixed Lily with a stare that implied amusement, but also made her shift uncomfortably, the tiniest bit suspicious that Tilden had been disappointed by her question. His only answer was to ask if perhaps he was a Hufflepuff instead because he was welcoming—or if all houses weren't welcoming in their own way. Lily had left that conversation confused, and wondering if Tilden should have been a Ravenclaw instead.

"Oh, I suppose we can go," Lily sighed. She didn't want to. That knowledge—the secret—was resting underneath her skin, like some sort of restless beast that had been long dormant, but now was awake and _hungry_. Lily hadn't told anyone how she had run her thumb along the smooth, curved edges of her badge nearly every night. She hadn't told anyone the questions that swam in her mind, the loudest and most pressing being _why do I have to?_ Only one person knew how close of a call Lily's tardiness had truly been—and how purposeful it had been.

The words were there, in Lily's mouth. They rested, like glass against her teeth, begging to spill out. But Lily knew they would only cut everyone—especially herself—if she let them. The words were there, but her voice was not. Lily knew precisely what to _say_, but the _how_ eluded her. How did she explain to her friends, this sense of hopelessness that had gripped her? Over the summer, her father had looked up from one of his heavy tomes, and accused her of being a nihilist. Lily had been taken aback, speechless against such a claim. His eyes had been equal parts comforting and condemning, when he asked her if it was truly such a terrible thing. She hadn't known how to respond to her father. She rarely did.

Instead, Lily had been left to ponder the word all summer.

Apathetic wasn't the adjective she would have chosen to describe her attitude, upon her return to Cokeworth following her fifth year at Hogwarts, but she had been badly shaken. Even Petunia had noted as much, in her typically judgmental tone. Lily was not so ignorant as to think her parents had not discussed her, and often at that, hushed voices providing a backdrop for sleepless summer nights, where Lily had lain prone atop her covers, staring at the ceiling fan as it rotated, stirring the stale air in her room. Lily had been irresolute as ever, torn between letting her emotions boil over in fits of temper that might have reawakened her mother's long dead dreams of producing an actress—and moments of complete silence, a numbness that made her feel apart from the world she had been living in. It had been the latter that frightened her the most, even as the truth of it rested at the tip of her tongue. How she didn't _want_ to be a prefect, how she was so _tired_ of this game that everyone around her seemed determined to keep playing. Lily found that she didn't care for much of it at all, and would rather remain in the compartment, discussing the Gryffindor Quidditch chances, despite never being the most ardent supporter before. She knew that if she were to share what was on her mind, her friends would listen. Perhaps Marlene might cut her off at every opportunity, but she wasn't there anyhow, and Lily had long ago grown used to the force of nature that was Marlene McKinnon.

Understanding though, there was the rub. Lily had no doubt her friends would listen to the trials and tribulations she had endured—most of which were self inflicted. They would be patient with her as she explained the tangled mess that had knotted up threads of thought and experience all together in her mind. They would hold her hands, stare at her imploringly with wide, dedicated eyes, and there was every chance that they would not understand a lick. It was that fear that Lily choked on, ever as the words balanced so precariously at her lips. It would be so easy to let them slip forth, but grappling with the reactions would be the most difficult thing she had faced. Not for the first time, Lily found herself wondering what about her it was, that had lead the Sorting Hat to declare Gryffindor quite so quickly.

"Oscar will be having kittens by now," Tilden declared, a note of glee in his voice, that drew Lily from her brooding. Though Tilden really was the best of them, a statement Lily would cling to stubbornly, until her dying day, he had his moments in which everyone questioned whether he truly was an upstanding citizen or not. He more than deserved his prefect badge, and Lily suspected he would make an excellent Head Boy, the following year, however, he reveled in every opportunity to take the mickey out of fellow housemate and friendly rival, Oscar Bones. Luckily for Tilden, there were oh so many opportunities.

"And here I thought you were finally adopting my ways," Lily teased, rising to her feet and reaching for her trunk, which she had left in the middle of the compartment, ever since her arrival. "I had assumed you were doing the gallant thing, and waiting for me." With a soft grunt, and a quickly placed glare toward Elspeth when the witch stood, as if to help her, Lily managed to wrangle her trunk above the seats, her face only mildly reddening from the effort.

Tilden rolled his eyes. "It's a bloody miracle how you haven't been kicked out yet," he stated baldly. Lily grimaced, knowing just how true it was. She supposed it would always remain her claim to fame that she had managed to be the first in their year to get detention, beating out even Sirius Black and James Potter. Then again, McGonagall always had a soft spot for those two, one that certainly did not extend to Lily. Not after she walked into the classroom late every single class, without fail.

"Let's go," Lily finally said, her tone bright as she swung her arms forward, reaching for the door. "Bye Flo, goodbye Elspeth. We might never see each other again, but I trust you two to take care of everything!" She and Tilden departed, the sound of their friends' laughter and jeers following them down the Hogwarts Express.

"Potter—"

"And Yang, if you would just read up on Transylvanian Tackle, I really think that we can—"

"Potter."

"Don't interrupt Cresswell. Now, like I was saying, once we manage to master—"

"Potter!"

"Merlin's beard, _what_ Cresswell?"

For all that could be said about James Potter, having a short temper wasn't one of them. It came as a surprise to most, given the company he kept, the choices he made, and some of the more _public_ displays James had partaken in over the years. Despite all that, he had always had an exceedingly long fuse. In fact, most of the time it was Remus or Sirius—or even Peter once—who exploded before James.

That being said, he was easily irritable, when it came to one of several subjects. Huffy, even. It was how he felt in that very moment, peering down his glasses, and glaring at his Keeper. Unsurprisingly, Cresswell was unaffected by James' glare. He had shared a dormitory with the Marauders for five years now, and was made of stronger stuff. James would have been irritated if he had been cowed by a simple glare, but he found himself the slightest bit piqued. He had hoped to inspire a little more fear in his teammates, now that he was finally Captain, but Dirk looked suitably unimpressed.

"I just wanted to make sure, you know you look like a right idiot?"

Alice Prewett let out a belt of laughter, and even Juliette Yang's lips twitched upwards into a smile as James glowered at the smiling Dirk. He _did_ know that he looked like a tosser. James was prone to gesticulating when he spoke, and sometimes—oftentimes—it could get a touch overbearing. Once he had been speaking so enthusiastically, hands flying about so wildly, that he had swept a lamp right off of the library desk where he had been plotting with his mates. Remus had been irritated with him for a week, for incurring the wrath of Madame Pince, and Sirius had insisted on calling him _Evans_ for even longer.

"Thanks, Cresswell, very helpful, that," James muttered, scowling darkly at him. Dirk just raised an eyebrow.

"I only thought to bring it up, because you seem to have gathered a crowd."

James' eyebrows jumped up, in tandem with his hand, which immediately flew to his hair. It was more habit than anything by this point, but he could still hear an echo in the back of his head, and he wrenched his hand down to his side, before he could think anything of it.

Sure enough, just outside the compartment door, a small group of witches had gathered. James didn't bother paying them much attention, because his eyes had landed on one in particular, and his hazel eyes narrowed behind his frames. His scowl darkened, and James crossed the minimal length of the compartment and wrenched open the door, poking his head out of the carriage.

"Oi! Talkalot!"

A diminutive witch with a sensible blonde bob, and a slant to her lips that made her appear as if she was always smirking, turned around and arched a cool eyebrow.

"Potter."

"What do you think you're up to, lingering about here? Up to your dirty tricks already?"

Talkalot narrowed her eyes, and one of the witches nearby straightened, glancing nervously between the two of them.

"Excuse me? Slytherin doesn't need to _cheat_ to trounce Gryffindor. I'm not sure what 'dirty tricks' you could even be referring to."

James could concede that the Slytherin Captain had something of a point. Vanity had run a tight ship the year before, and there had been none of the usual hexes from around the corner that James had grown used to, but he still hadn't forgiven the debacle that lead to him playing Seeker for nearly an entire season. Time would only tell if Talkalot would follow in the steps of her former Captain, but there were years of bad blood between the two teams that James had no interest in seeing anywhere off the Quidditch pitch.

A familiar cockiness—a certainty in Quidditch, if nothing else—descended over James, and he smirked after Talkalot, who had already turned heel and was walking in the opposite direction.

"Better get to practicing then. Even _if_ you cheated you won't be able to _touch_ us this year." They were rather bold words, considering Gryffindor's spectacular loss during the last game of the year, but James believed it all the same. Returning to his position as Chaser had only been the first step, and now that he was actually in _charge_—

"James?"

His head turned around and he blinked for a moment, suddenly realizing who had called his name.

"Eliza, hi."

The pretty blonde beamed at him, and James felt his heart sinking a bit in his chest. He had taken Eliza out for the last Hogsmeade visit of the year, spurred on by a sense of freedom from O.W.L.s, and frustration at the latest, very public rejection delivered handily by Lily Evans. James had noticed Eliza before—he would have had to be blind not to—but he had never given too much thought to her before that weekend. They had seen each other a few times over the summer, and he had brought her round to have dinner with his parents and everything. James just didn't know how to explain to Eliza that the way his mother had smiled politely and called her "_quite a lovely girl_," had only confirmed what James had already been feeling.

Eliza stepped forward, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, and smiling broadly at him. James glanced behind, to the compartment he was only half in, and realized there was no hope of getting any sort of meeting back on track. His teammates were all devoted to Gryffindor Quidditch, but the term hadn't even technically started. They would still need to hold tryouts for the two remaining positions, and the reserve team. James was mad about Quidditch, but there was really only so much he could convey with his wildly punctuated words, and not an actual broom and pitch. Catching Macdonald's eye, he gave her a quick nod, and then stepped out into the corridor fully, causing the small gaggle of witches to titter nervously, not even bothering to hide the fact that they were clearly listening to everything.

Paying them no mind, Eliza smiled warmly at James, and laid her hand on his arm. James glanced down at where she was touching him, his heart sinking even lower.

"Fancy walking me back to my compartment? I went looking for the snack trolley." Eliza's voice was bright and cheerful, a perfect contrast to James' rapidly descending mood. But he couldn't do anything but shrug and nod, nervously avoiding her gaze.

"Sure. It looks like you didn't manage to find her, though."

Eliza gave him a saucy smile, and a conspiratorial wink. "How do you know? I might have found her, and already eaten everything."

Despite his discomfort over what he knew he had to do, James found himself smiling. Eliza was _funny_. He hadn't forgotten. Her humor bled out, even through the letters they had exchanged over the holiday. Truth be told, when he had first asked her to Hogsmeade, all James had been thinking about was the fact that she was fit, and completely different from Evans, but he had actually enjoyed himself on their date. He found that he quite liked Eliza's company, and if he had ever been good at following any sort of directions, she ought to be the girl that he spent his time thinking about.

"I suppose you might have done that."

Eliza fixed him with an indulgent smile, and continued to move down the corridor, further and further away from where the group of girls had gathered.

"I wanted to talk to you, James." Her voice was soft and serious, and James' eyes flew to meet hers. There was nothing but honesty and kindness there, but James couldn't explain the odd swooping sensation in his stomach. "I have to admit, when you asked me to Hogsmeade, I wasn't looking for anything."

James swallowed, wondering if he should cut Eliza off, before she said something too damning. He had already determined he wanted to remain friends with her. She was funny and sweet and intelligent, and frankly, a good influence on James. All things his father had said, after that dinner.

"I didn't plan to date in Hogwarts." James had known that. Truth be told, it was one of the things that made James ask her in the first place. Remus had rolled his eyes when he informed his friends of his plan, muttering under his breath about stupid prats chasing what he couldn't have. Eliza Gregory had always been one of those witches that just seemed so apart from it all.

"But you were you, and it was just so charming, really. I knew you were only asking me because Lily said no, but then you seemed actually interested, and well, I can admit to a small amount of pettiness."

James raised his eyebrows in surprise. He hadn't thought there was any tension between Eliza and Lily; as far as he knew, the two were in completely different social circles. Then again, a circle had never meant all that much to Lily Evans.

Eliza just shrugged her shoulders lightly, looking unashamed. "It's Lily," she stated simply, as if that was enough. And yeah, it was.

_It's Lily_ had been James' excuse for far too long.

"I'm not looking for a relationship though," Eliza said after a long pause. James' head snapped to stare at her, his eyes careful and scrutinizing. "It's N.E.W.T. year for me, and as charming as you are, I don't have the time for a boyfriend. I don't have the time to get my heart broken and keep up with my studies you know."

She said it so matter-of-fact, however there was a teasing lilt to her voice. James wondered if she wasn't being painfully honest as well. He swallowed, reaching his hand up to rub at the back of his neck.

"Eliza," he began, but stopped in the face of her gentle smile, just a touch patronizing — enough to remind him that she knew exactly what she was talking about. "I've really enjoyed getting to know you," he finished instead, and he watched the smile on her face grow just the slightest bit larger.

"Oh you've no idea how much I've liked getting to know you too. James Potter." She nudged his side playfully, and James chuckled, suddenly struck with a sharp bolt of gratitude. "I was really worried you were going to be devastated," she continued to tease. "It might have ruined your chances at that Quidditch Cup."

James snickered. "Oh, I bet McKinnon would have thrown you a party if it had."

Eliza let her head tilt back, and a soft laugh slipped past. Her feet stopped moving a second before James, causing him to take a few more steps forward, before he turned back.

"Well, this is my compartment," she said, gesturing to a group of seventh years James recognized as near constant presences in the library. Finding a sudden lump in his throat—brought on by a strange mix of relief and regret—James just nodded, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. Eliza shot him a glance that he couldn't quite interpret—perhaps apologetic and remorseful all at once—and then disappeared back into her compartment.

James let out a sigh, and turned around, bringing himself face to face with none other than Lily Evans, wearing a haphazard blouse with one of the buttons done up wrong, a knee-length muggle skirt he was fairly certain was backwards, and her prefect badge, lopsided and pinned to the wrong side of her chest. Christ but she was a bloody mess.

His heart thumped painfully in his chest, and his fingers twitched at his side, as if to fly up to his hair.

All summer he had made himself—and Sirius—all sorts of promises. _I'll never speak to her again. I'll never ask her out again. I won't let her humiliate me like that again_. Petty, and childish, and completely honest. James meant to keep them too, every last one. That day by the lake...James was done. He knew he was supposed to turn around, maybe shoot her a glare. He wasn't talking to her anymore, and he wasn't letting her make a prat of him. He wasn't even letting himself do it.

But there was something strange, and indescribable in her eyes. Some unknown emotion that she looked to be holding back by her very teeth, if the way she was biting down on her lip was any indication. James found himself curious, insatiably so, the way he always was, whenever anything to do with Lily Evans ever came up. And without meaning to, without even thinking about what Sirius would say, or the oaths he had made over the summer, James found the words pushing past his carefully erected defenses, and into the strange chasm between the two of them.

"Alright, Evans?"

She stared at him, unblinkingly, for just a moment. It lingered, before turning into another moment, and then another, and then the flush started creeping up along James' neck, unbidden. Foolish promises indeed. She hadn't even spoken a _word_, and she was already making him feel as if he was the size of a leprechaun. James turned around, genuine anger starting to seep in, making his fists clench at his side. He was so focused on keeping the frustration at bay, that he almost missed her response, as circumspect and equivocal as ever.

"Alright, Potter."

James froze, letting the words sink in. He didn't bother turning around, knowing that it would raise more questions than answers. Instead, he turned over the words in his mind, and without another sound, continued on his way, more determined than ever to find his friends.


End file.
